Long Newbies Poems
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There has always been an inter-outer over-under tender balance of loveless socio-equations as they super fit the psychosocial sexe-endices in this modern garner of pluses/minuses/bytes and scribbles mostly incommunicado inexperience and parental impreciseness as to, "anything planned", which in tomb leaves us doth a deranged desperate captive of that all inbibed prisoner **** of nun conformist adventurerers and that really, that there are just too many organic integers making for really bad math.intuitations/attributes and all of the familio do's and don'ts that creep bastardy across the years to inculcate, interfere, incase all of the hoped, promised integrity of just 2 people in love? with all that makes it their potential, not all of the hopeless, ne'r do wells, dead driven dud marriages that hoped to promulgate their failures onto the newbies totally unprepared, but willfully negative implicit on that new, and should be uninterrupted, all naked, seeing alter intense emoexplosive journeys to that wait waits, some supposes, everybody entices, everyone enthralls, quired questions, problem perplexes, initiates initiated, complexes complete, duty deforms, eerily exacts a viscous value, on properties promised a forever coexistance, but not at the expense of selfish selfness; can it be to an us award of a faceoff fervent fever, that WE, can coincide an opposite internal presence that allows us to be a universal component undeluded, underived, unpolluted by the natural wonders that are our genetic cohesions, so they can further their total promise to lead a connected life of copious love, desire and plentitudes of us-ness, disavowing all else in a socioinvasive parental wake of them vs us in all things blood/emo crass cursive? Leave them, the future lovers of us alone, let it flow and keep your, non orgasmic, loveless failures to yourself, old/tainted people of relations, lovers of social inhibitions it plays to an ill-at-ease, stubborn Igor-ignocompliance. Yes, we had Summer Love/Woodstock, but then we grew to be livestock, waiting for the senior-socioseniorslaughter pill mill. You must have some small, tinder, macromolecule of what it was to be standing in the bliss of universal underware; a long time ago in a universe far, far, away. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! the neighbors.
Oh the glory! Of this my story
Upon a colossal, metallic beast
Did I sail, for many a year
Every ocean and sea, seemed the vastness of eternity
My name is Arthur Homer Creed, AKA -“Homie”
Chief Petty Officer, United States Navy
My job, dangerous as it was
Was my one true love.
Director on the flight deck
Of an aircraft carrier
We cruised from Japan to Quebec
The scream of the jet
Was Mozart to my ear,
Adrenaline rush
Newbies full of fear-
But taught them all I did,
To be safe and stay on the grid
To catch a Tomcat became second nature-
And soon, for the novice, a breathtaking adventure.
How I adored the hues of sunset
And the smell of intensity from a jet
Off we sent them,
In the fury of a screaming cat
A hundred miles up they would fly
While we waited to catch them
From a dismissive sky.
“Chief Homie“, my flyboys called me
I was their father, and mentor out to sea
Their only family.
The young ones who were here to serve,
This great battleship,
Only the best did they deserve.
Into ports we swept
Alluring the girls, and scoring some drink,
Then back to the ship we went
Refreshed, relaxed and ready to think.
Onward another month or two we sailed,
18 hours days,
Through high winds and formidable gales.
Then the time came to get serious
There was a threat
The “Old Man” was furious -
F-18’s sent to the Middle East
Dropping bombs
In the name of peace.
Sorties flown day and night,
Blackout ship- we were trying to hide
Manning all battle stations,
This was a defensive action.
Through the bulkhead it came -
Crashing, crushing, killing, exploding
Entire ship, quickly eroding.
This projectile -
Erasing the faces I had known,
My legs, I saw, off were blown-
I grabbed the hatch
To keep
This hell from reaching others,
Up on deck.
Heaving it shut
With all I had left
I got that watertight hatch closed
Then I knew I was dead-
As the water enveloped my head,
I could no longer breathe -
Sea pouring in all around me.
I saved that ship, and those boys
From dying that day-
Or so I suppose,
Because I hear their praises
Sung to me -
In my watery grave,
Under the sea.
A. Green
Some people have drama every day.
Their house burned down three times this week.
They are wearing a cast on their leg again.
Their dog ran away, dragging her dog house.
Their wedding ring popped off and down a sewer drain.
They discovered their husband has three other wives.
I know one of these Bad Luck Queens quite well. She is always stirred up.
Loud and proud, a horror story, and perpetually late to work besides.
Notoriously late, expectedly late. Let’s call her Agnes.
She has the worst luck every day. A strange man was in her house.
She could not come to work before she got him out of there.
She had a fender bender. There were no witnesses,
so she had to wait for the police.
Someone broke down the front door of her house in the middle of the night
And took all her kid’s Christmas presents for the sixth year in a row.
Her grandmother ran away from the old folk’s home on Tuesday.
She has been found, but Agnes has to take off early today
to find her a new place.
Suggestions are made but Agnes has tried everything. Nothing works for her.
Her life is perpetually upside down, topsy-turvy, in the toilet.
She has a small cut, and she wonders if it is cancer.
It is almost like she hopes it is.
She never has enough money for lunch.
Can she please have your extra can of soup?
She is so grateful for any help she can get.
When we first met her, we were more than willing to loan her
a candy bar, can of soup, and
Sometimes money. Nothing ever gets back though,
so now it is the newbies who are rallying
To have a little party for her.
They think we savvy survivors are horrible for not wanting to cough up a mere dollar apiece for her grandmother's funeral, not realizing we have already coughed up a dollar for nineteen of Agnes' grandmothers' funerals.
Agnes, the Bad Luck Queen, interesting every time she is seen.
"...a band beyond description,
like Jehovah's favorite choir."
Though I'm only old enough to be
Some hippie's kid brother
I've been to hear the music play the band
Times more than a few.
I liked the carnival atmosphere,
Smokeladen from passage of pipes,
Filling the thrumming concert sites
Wherever they appeared,
Everyone dance-happy, everybody friends
When Jerry's Kids and their kids
Got together for awhile.
I remember one of the last times,
A summer's night breezily warm,
The day shedding its bright heat
Drawing slowly down in orange light, purple clouds
While a multicolored audience drew itself together
As a living kaleidoscope for initiate eyes.
I watched one buxom girl,
Clad solely in a blue cotton dress
Wrapped like a mist around her,
Dancing trippingly 'round and 'round through the crowd,
Spinning and hopping,
Lovely as some windblown flower.
They played their usual four-hour set,
One song melting into another
Weaving melodic tapestries
Waxing better the more they went on,
'Til old Bobby Weir got to screaming out
For sheer joy.
Well, I say you can keep your Metal Boys,
Your screeching Fly-By-Nighters,
Deride if you will such nostalgic things.
These gents survived to play their hearts out
From the Summer of Love to the Spring of c.d.s,,
From tiedye n' jeans to Music Video
- Yet still, head-to-head, they could bury
The best the newbies could hope to show;
Could play 'em right into the ground.
Myself, I find it hard to see
What was so funny about a generation dedicating itself to love.
Give me a band like this any day,
Who can draw out well-tailored bankers
To pass and puff,
Fire up forty-year-old mothers-of-five
To dance in place for two hours, enthralled -
Yes, I'm grateful for the Dead, my friends.
They'll always be all right by me.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all thru the Soup bowl,
Not a poet was writing, not even the musing mole.
All their pens were hung by the chimney with bubble gum,
Hoping Winged Warrior would lose and let them win some.
The poetesses were nestled snuggled in their beds,
With visions of their makeup now surely spreads.
While Silent One was awake only took a silent nap,
Waking Bobby May, who finally took his crappy crap.
Noises from the lawn where SOS was making such a clatter,
He was speaking in Klingon about the Borg mad hatter.
I then slipped by the window and dropped my hash,
Tore open the cupboards to hide the stinky stash.
Brenda Chiri & Susan Ashley were making angels in the snow,
For they were locked out from the bowl and had no place to go.
Lin Lane & Jan Allison got up early to make some grub,
Then left extra early to go to the local pub.
Brandy Nicole and Anne-Lise were looking at the moon,
While the Bard and John Hamilton were playing a chilly tune.
In the morn, Heidi Sands & Connie Wong were ready to write,
Dreaming of winning a contest all through the night.
Charles Messina & Chris Green having an eggnog beer,
As St Victor Buhagiar feeds the lazy reindeer.
A knock at the door and all started to stare,
Why its newbies Midnight Aurora and Hello There.
Now Gershon! now, Andrea! Now, Besma and Regina!
On, Sandra! On, Kimmy! On Caren & down under Maria!
Next time bring deodorant for it smells like a horses stall,
I need some fresh air, fly my pretties fly away all.
...sorry, if I left anyone out...will get you next time!...
~~~Happy! Holidays! Everyone!~~~
Nov.20.2019
The Night Before 2
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Placed 2'nd & POTD~Plus 3'rd in the top 100 New Poems...Thank You
*NO LOVE FOR LAZY MAN*
If no food for lazy man
Should he still be loved
The night covers his nakedness
But daybreak is his worst enemy
The sun is never good on his skin
The rain makes him shiver
He's got a tender palms not good for hoes
The work skipped by his hands
Right in his heart he makes up for
He may not lift a stone with his fingers
But his heart moves stretch of mountains
Good things of the world he desires
Names of oldies and newbies found on his tongue tip
He speaks in fables of wealth
Wealth that holds no sweat
He plans on spending fortune he's never earned
A palace he is going to build
He wants maids for his queen which he has not wooed
He speaks of love like a moon tales
The riches brought by the desert whirlwinds
He speaks of a castle to build
Though he's yet a land owner
Choices and traits of his woman
He brags about a lot
Women he wants to love
I guess with mere words of his mouth
The teens are leaving in numbers
Our friend is yet to choose
The virgins are opening the seal and shedding the pure blood
Our friend still dreams of his wishes
No love for lazy man someone please tell our friend
You cast no grains nor plant any seed
You set no trap nor cast a fish net
You sell no tuber nor plough the land
The rain is gone no basket is filled with fruits
The merchant are here
No exchange have you made
The grayhair have doubled
The youths seem to bow for you
When the kids call you father
You know you made no zygote
The sunrise is about to set
Another season gone with no harvest
Still the same stainless palm
If no food for lazy man
Just you know, no love for lazy man
*Conceptual FM ???*
Now where does this Highlander start
To thank those commenter's, present and past
So many read and absorbed
Their kindness to me always lasts
Dr.Ram and Carol Brown
My African Queen 'Miss Wilma Neel's
Michael from New York City
Whose comments I internally feel
There's Andrea, the Utah babe
And Carolyn, from Florida State
Their writing I so enjoy
For their words reverberate
John Loving is such a wonderful guy
There's Sara and Doris too
Deb Radke and Sharon Ruebel our newbies
Made welcome to our literal zoo
P.D. Skat and Constance
Barbara, Iolanda and June
Francine from lovely Nanaimo
Many thanks to all of you
To Ruben, Celene and Raul
Your past writes have helped me grow
Along with so many others
You have helped my words to flow
Blimey! I better not miss out the Brits
Sarah, Brian, Sharon and June
And Anna Marie, away down in Wales
I have read in my front room
Many dudes I also have to thank
Harry Horsman the Geordie boy
The two Roberts, Dufresne and Hinshaw
Whose writings bring so much joy
There's also the bard called Peranteau
Billy the Kidster, Cecil as well
HG, Catie Lindsey and James Goff
Who marshalls his words real swell
And lastly there's the thousands of others
This character has ran out of space
Keep the ink in you pen gently flowing
Your names to me is your face
Golly! this is turning into a story
And many told by the above writing troops
As I marvel at your writing ingredients
Keep writing for this wonderful Soup
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/poetry-soup-16.php
That’s not poetry. This is poetry.
That cannot be poetry. It is not iambic pentameter.
That is a calamity; this is outstanding.
Out standing in an alley, behind a dumpster kind of writing.
We cannot agree for we do not have the same ideas.
And this is why poetry cannot be deciphered, understood or dissected
by anyone’s brain; it must be felt by your heart.
The poems I throw onto a page are my own feelings and thoughts.
Sometimes not clear to anyone but me,
other times they appeal to many.
I am compelled to write because I cannot fathom not writing.
I have a daily “quota” for myself,
not caring about anything but the number.
This means that some of my stuff is great, most of it is not so terrific,
And a few of the things I toss onto a poetry site are truly bad poetry.
My philosophy is this: Poetry is a numbers game.
Poetry contests are a numbers game.
Words and numbers holding hands, swinging hands, enjoying each other.
I laugh when I read some of the comments.
All of the tips I get on how to improve my poetry are from the newbies.
Newbies who have written less than three poems usually are full of tips.
I think this is hilarious.
It makes me laugh.
Everything about poetry for me is fun,
and so are tips from newbies.
That is my poetry philosophy for today.
And here is my only advice – go with your heart.
Some of the poems I read are so metaphoric I do not understand them with my mind.
However, my SOUL loves them, my heart adores them, and they give me joy.
Keep writing until the pink flamingos roost on your head.
Anecdotal ancestors are anxiously arriving.
Bringing Betty’s bugs behind Beauty’s book bag
Creepy Clementine chases Crazy Charlie
Deliberately doing dainty delicate dynamics.
Effortlessly engaging exciting English earls.
Furthermore furiously finding frivolous friends.
Generous grandma gestures gaily.
Hoping heavy hitters help Heroic Henry.
Ideally Indigo instills inky interment in interested intellectuals.
Jubilant jellyfish join Jerky Joe’s joyous jamboree.
Kindhearted kin keep kaleidoscopic knowledge
Languishing lithe lovelies lighten load
Making monumental mammoth moves memorable
Nefarious Never-do-wells needle noxious newbies.
Opposite opportunists organize ornery oranges
Providing perfect pumpkin pies for papas.
Quality quails quickly qualify for quiz-a-thon.
Relatives regard reunion ridiculously raucous and refreshing.
Stupendously serious stompers show up at the Saturday stampede.
Thrilled third-cousins trade Trixies for Trumpets
Unified uncles undertake over unruly urchins
Verdant violins vacillate violently
Willing women watch wonderful watery waterfall
‘exciting ‘xtraordinary ‘x-factors ‘xceed ‘xpectations
Young yappers yell yes, unifying youth
Zealots zig-zag zestfully
Around amorous Aunts Acknowledging
Best boastful, boyish, babbling, bickering reunion ever!
A euphemism is a way
of saying what went down,
of neutralising all dismay,
and rubbing out the frown.
The bad stuff has by now occurred,
but let’s not raise the tension:
we need a mollifying word,
a less-than-stressful mention.
“We cannot say for sure, at all,
how World War Two will end:
you think we’ve got a crystal ball?
Who knows how things may tend?”
These words of Hiro Hito were
designed to calm the moms:
did no-one in Japan say, “Sir,
they’ve dropped two atom bombs”?
Imagine that your local church
(episcopal, suppose)
needs newbies, and is on the search
for Sunday-sucker-Joes.
“This Hitler guy, let’s not say why,
won’t be the perfect warden.”
And if your parents have to die,
what’s wrong with Lizzie Borden?
A dinner invite: you’re recruiting
a trusty baby-sitter –
Rasputin, maybe? Why not Putin?
You don’t want Gary Glitter?
The kids need someone, prima facie,
less controversial, calmer:
Spencer Tracy? Kevin Spacey?
Let’s book the Dalai Lama!
Count Dracula is not Count Basie
(self-harmer, instant karma):
but better yet than John Wayne Gacey
or even Geoffrey Dahmer.
Euphemism doesn’t work.
I’d rather know the truth.
So Humphrey Bogart was a jerk,
Roy Rogers and Babe Ruth.